Chapter 3: November 12th First Note

The week after the Sunday encounter passes in a blur of days that feel like they’re made of the same grey fabric. Monday comes and goes. Tuesday comes and goes. I teach my classes. I grade my papers. I have my meetings. I perform my role. I do everything I’m supposed to do.

But I can’t stop thinking about what he said. I can’t stop thinking about shedding layers. I can’t stop thinking about letting go.

I think about the scarf. The scarf I took off. The scarf I didn’t put back on. I think about how it felt to walk home without it. I think about how it felt to feel the air on my neck. I think about how it didn’t feel like anything at all.

And I wonder if that’s what shedding layers means. I wonder if it means doing things that don’t feel like anything. I wonder if it means doing things that feel like nothing, until eventually they feel like something.

I don’t know if that makes sense. I don’t know if anything makes sense anymore.

On Wednesday morning, I’m walking to campus. The sun is rising, casting thin grey light over the snow-covered streets. The temperature is in the teens. The wind is coming off the river.

And I realize I’m not wearing a scarf.

I stop in the middle of the sidewalk. I look down at my neck. It’s bare. The air is hitting my skin, and I don’t feel it. I don’t feel anything.

I think about going back. I think about going home and getting a scarf. I think about wrapping it around my neck like I’ve always done. I think about how easy that would be.

But I don’t. I keep walking.

I walk to campus. I walk through the cold. I walk through the grey. I walk through everything, and I don’t feel a thing.

But something is different. Something has changed. I don’t know what it is. I don’t know how to name it. But something feels different.

I think about the man in the library. I think about his questions. I think about the way he looked at me when I wrote: “Don’t be a ghost.” I think about the way he nodded, just once, as he understood.

I think about my father. I think about the way he used to sit in his chair. I think about the way he used to look at the world through a glass wall. I think about the way he never let anyone in.

I think about how I’m like him. I think about how I’ve become him. I think about how I’ve been sitting in my chair, looking at the world through a glass wall, never letting anyone in.

And I think about how I don’t want to be like him anymore.

I teach my classes. I have my meetings. I grade my papers. I do everything I’m supposed to do.

But I’m not performing. At least, not all the way. There’s something else there. Something underneath. Something that’s starting to peek through.

I don’t know what it is. I don’t know if it’s real or if it’s just another performance. But it’s there. It’s there, and I can’t ignore it.

On Wednesday night, I go to the library. I know it’s not Tuesday. I know he said,” See you Tuesday.” But I can’t wait. I can’t wait until Tuesday. I need to see him. I need to tell him about the scarf. I need to tell him about the walk to campus. I need to tell him about the thing that’s starting to peek through.

He’s not there.

The library is empty. The usual seat is empty. The chair across from it is empty. Everything is empty.

I sat down. I take out my book. I pretend to read.

But I can’t concentrate. I keep looking at the door. I keep waiting for him to walk through it. I keep waiting for him to come.

He doesn’t come.